


habits shaped like you

by ayushi_writes



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (Partial) Sickfic, Comfort Food, M/M, Mutual Pining, Roommates, caring for each other in little understated ways..., cooking for someone is a love language!!!!, kiyoomi about atsumu: i want to kiss him. how horrifying, kiyoomi wants to pinch atsumu's cheeks so bad pray for him, miya twins being little shits to each other, wintery vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:36:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28675323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayushi_writes/pseuds/ayushi_writes
Summary: “Kinda rich of you ta say that, like ya don’ have yer fair share of dumb shit in the shopping basket.”Kiyoomi bristles. “Aromatherapy is ascientifically sound—”“It’s not the end of the world ta own up to yer little indulgences, Omi-Omi.”It’s unbelievably cruel of Atsumu to say that, in his awful drop-sleeve muscle tank and loose sweatpants and ruffled, gel-free hair becauseweekends are for the au naturale,in his lopsided smile that Kiyoomi wants to kiss off his face and onto his own.Isn’t it, though?~two jerks, and the little ways they take care of each other
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 47
Kudos: 502
Collections: SakuAtsu Fics





	habits shaped like you

**Author's Note:**

> happy belated new year! ive been trying to finish off this fic for Ages and finally... i have triumphed
> 
> the working title for this has been "there is caring involved"
> 
> enjoy!!

Kiyoomi dreads grocery trips, both for their unfortunate necessity and the even-more-unfortunate proximity to his idiot roommate that they entail.

"Some cookies cuz yer such a sweetie!" Atsumu shakes the tin at him. "Look, they're even heart-shaped~"

Most unfortunate of all, of course, is how little he minds said idiot roommate’s interpolations to Kiyoomi’s neatly itemized shopping list.

"You're buying if you keep piling up nonsense purchases in the basket."

"Fine by me." He thunks the cookies down, eyes creasing up in one of his shit-eating grins. “Kinda rich of you ta say that, like ya don’ have yer fair share of dumb shit in here.”

Kiyoomi bristles. “Aromatherapy is a _scientifically sound—”_

“It’s not the end of the world ta own up to yer little indulgences, Omi-Omi.”

It’s unbelievably cruel of Atsumu to say that, in his awful drop-sleeve muscle tank and loose sweatpants and ruffled, gel-free hair because _weekends are for the au naturale_ , in his lopsided smile that Kiyoomi wants to kiss off his face and onto his own.

_Isn’t it, though?_

Feigning exasperation, he rolls his eyes and jerks his chin towards the skin products aisle. "Need to stock up on anything?"

"...Yeah." Atsumu eyes him. “How d’ _you_ know that?”

"You squeeze every last drop out of your little hand moisture tubes. There's a graveyard of them in our bathroom." Kiyoomi pauses, tilting his head. "I don't know _how_ you manage to get any lotion out of those."

Atsumu fails to look even the slightest bit ashamed at the accusation, puffing up to declare, "I was raised ta get my money's worth!" 

“You were raised to plague the world with bad jokes and our bathroom with lotion bottle cadavers.”

“Yeah, well, you—you were raised ta plague _me_ with yer _bullshit!”_

He doesn’t even need to offer more than a pair of raised eyebrows for how weak that was. Huffing, Atsumu bustles ahead with their loaded basket, scanning the shelves for his picky little foreign brand. 

Kiyoomi casts half a glance over a rack of cheap exfoliators in front of him. Unbidden, his eyes drift over to Atsumu squinting up and down a shelf, puffing his cheeks out. 

Several years of knowing him hadn’t informed Kiyoomi of this habit, but several months of sharing an apartment have let him in on it like a little secret, that Atsumu puffs his cheeks out when thinking too hard. 

Several weeks of being deeply and unfortunately infatuated with Atsumu have, however, informed Kiyoomi that he would do anything, just _anything_ to poke at and cup those cheeks, just once.

“Ya need anythin’?” 

He starts. Atsumu’s looking at him expectantly.

“Why’m I even askin’ the guy who uses store-brand face wash’n hasn’t heard of a zit since 2016?” he grumbles bitterly, letting his armful of skin products clatter into the basket.

Kiyoomi shrugs, sliding back a usual biting response. “I’d say it’s a genetics thing, but _Osamu_ seems to be doing pretty well for himself.”

“He got pimples in worse places than his face, I’ll tell ya,” Atsumu says darkly, steering them to the checkout line. 

“Please don’t.”

Atsumu does his share of complaining about the extra shit that he didn’t _personally_ add in the basket as they unload. 

He puffs out his cheeks again as he arranges the jumble of dire necessities and indulgent bullshit, elbowing Kiyoomi as he does so. Abhorrent. Kiyoomi wants to cradle him.

Regardless, he catches sight of that hot sauce that Atsumu despises but Kiyoomi swears by clinking onto the conveyor belt.

* * *

Kiyoomi feels… sort of contrite. Well, he's been on-edge lately because of his parents wheedling him to visit for a reunion, crowded with family members that he has no emotional attachment to. So earlier, when Atsumu got up early for a train ride to visit Osamu and banged around the way he usually does for his morning routine, Kiyoomi may have gotten… short with him.

Okay, he bit Atsumu's head off for the noise and the mess. Atsumu had been in too much of a rush to get into it with Kiyoomi the way he usually would, which only makes him feel _worse_ that the whole idiotic affair was mostly one-sided.

Kiyoomi mopes around for a bit, because he's a goddamn adult alone in his own apartment and no one else can bear witness to it, then decides to embark on his weekly deep-clean a day early.

They settle him, his routines, following them carefully and thoroughly. The sting of bleach in his nostrils is welcome as he sprays and scrubs and wipes to the quiet thrum of his Spotify playlist. The thought crosses his mind that Atsumu would usually be offering some entirely-unhelpful pointers, pointing at pristine surfaces and saying “Ya missed a spot!” to crack himself up. 

_Shut up,_ he tells himself. _Since when did you need his goddamn color commentary?_

Finally, he surveys the spotless kitchen tile with satisfaction. Sure, the only thing missing is a loud roommate mock-complaining about the fresh lemony scent throughout the apartment, but... 

Kiyoomi peels off his gloves as he walks past the trash, tossing them and plopping down at the table, _not_ morosely.

He ends up resting his head on his forearms, the familiar exhaustion of a thorough apartment-scrubbing settling in his muscles. He doesn't even lift his head up when the door clicks open. There's some shuffling by the genkan, and a quiet rustling approaches the table.

"Y'cleaned early, Omi-kun? Looks nice," he hears, which is what Atsumu always says after Kiyoomi cleans.

Kiyoomi mm-hmms back, guilt curling at the back of his throat at the deliberately careful and quiet motions he's registering. 

"Hey, 'Samu had some leftovers when I visited him," Atsumu mumbles, dropping a plastic bag on the dining table as he passes by. "Feel free ta scavenge around."

Kiyoomi peers inside the bag, quietly delighted upon seeing some of his favorite kombu onigiri, carefully wrapped the way he knows Onigiri Miya takes pride in.

He reaches for one, unwrapping it, and over the crinkle of the plastic wrap he watches Atsumu unwind his scarf, slip off his coat. The brisk city winds always leave him pink-cheeked and red-nosed, and Kiyoomi’s chest squeezes at the sight, helplessly endeared to the little huffs Atsumu lets out as he bustles around to warm up. 

Only when an entirely-unwelcome thought of offering to help him _warm up_ drifts through his head does Kiyoomi come to his senses. Atsumu’s dragged over a space heater to plop down in front of and blast hot air into his face with those goddamn life-ruining cheeks that Kiyoomi just… 

Shouldn’t be focusing on, when there are more _pressing_ matters at hand.

"Atsumu," he starts, suddenly in a rush to get the words out. "Hey. I was out of line this morning, I'm—" 

"Nothin' ta worry about, Omi-omi!" Atsumu waves a hand, smile undimmed. "I've been pricked by ya before, I know ya don' mean nothin' by it." He closes his eyes and leans closer to the heater, for all the world looking like he’s cooling off his face with a fan at the height of summer.

Kiyoomi watches Atsumu's shoulders, the easy set of them, thinks about the way he's so oddly indiscriminate about what rolls off his back and what sticks, weighs him down.

* * *

Atsumu tells him, plainly, over breakfast. “I think I’m gettin’ sick, and no, it ain’t my ‘hot girl shit disease’ punchline this time.”

It’s conveniently timed, he thinks, for the off-season that’s just started and allows them a break from frequent travel, but something within Kiyoomi wants to shrivel up and die at what _Atsumu_ might’ve caught from all the travel they’ve already done.

“But listen! I’m pretty sure ‘Samu and Suna have a guest room at their place, so—”

“A what?”

Atsumu looks at him like _he’s_ the one dropping entire non-sequiturs into their conversation. 

"Yer probably not familiar with the concept—so when ya invite _other people_ over, ya need a _room_ for yer guests—" 

"Why the hell are you dragging your sick ass over to your _brother's_ place?"

Atsumu rolls his eyes. "Right, and I'm supposed to stay here, with you, as I ride out my probably-contagious ooky-spooky illness?”

"Just because I'm good at _not_ getting sick, doesn't mean I don't know how to take care of a sick person," Kiyoomi shoots back, affronted.

"What—dumbass, I don' wanna expose ya! Do ya _want_ me hangin’ around ya like this?” 

Kiyoomi can’t quite get words out for a second, as if the realization is pressing on his throat. Why _isn’t_ he jumping at the opportunity to kick Atsumu out and sanitize every surface of their apartment?

Something about Atsumu’s easy willingness to abandon ship—well, the grand mariner that is their shared apartment—for Kiyoomi’s sake, as if it’s an _of course,_ as if it’s the obvious next step… 

Atsumu continues, like an idiot would, “And for all I know, ya have a string of past roommates that’ve gone missin’ every time they had the audacity of catchin’ the flu!”

The lump in Kiyoomi’s throat goes down easily as the sheer idiocy of _that._ “If that was the case, you’d have gone missing several months ago for entirely different breeds of audacity.”

“Well, if there’s anyone who’d know how ta cover up a scene…”

He doesn’t even dignify that with a response. "No. You don't… just stay here, I'll be fine. I won't be playing nurse for you, but… better for you to recover at home."

Despite their tiff, Atsumu brightens at that and wiggles his eyebrows. "I mean—"

"Another word and you die." 

Kiyoomi ignores whatever Atsumu says in response to that, despite his ultimatum, because _home_ slipped out so easily that he needs a moment away from whatever unintelligent response he’s involuntarily prompted.

 _Home._ Sure, it’s what he called his single apartment in Osaka after he signed onto the Jackals. But even now, many months after being handed one of a twin set of keys to a brand new two-bed-two-bath-oh-yer-just-gonna-love-it, the shape of it is strange in his mouth.

He tunes back in to some mind-numbingly weird anecdote about that one time Suna got Atsumu a maid cafe voucher as a gag gift, and decides to go dig out an unopened box of masks to pointedly thunk in front of him. Atsumu takes the hint and shovels the rest of his breakfast into a sheepish grin, snapping a fresh mask over it.

* * *

Kiyoomi had been worried about managing and taking care of a sick Atsumu, but bizarrely enough, he’s now worried about how _little_ he has to manage and take care of a sick Atsumu.

Atsumu makes himself unbelievably scarce in their apartment. He rarely leaves his room, hardly lingers in the kitchen or bathroom long enough to do more than presumably utilize their facilities and whip around a cleaning wipe across every surface, and only ever talks to Kiyoomi by shouting through a wall or over text. 

It’s like rooming with a ghost, except instead of cold spots, the scent of Clorox wipes lingers in his wake, and instead of rattling windows and creaky doors by way of communication, Kiyoomi gets text strings of distraught kaomojis in reaction to whatever series he’s binging on Netflix.

This is in stark contrast to how Atsumu acted when he sprained an ankle last season, where he dramatically limped around the apartment and flung himself onto whatever furniture Kiyoomi was occupying to lament his state.

He’d been all, “Omi-kun, grab an extra puddin’ for yer poor weakened teammate?” and “Maybe some time away from my sets will remind ya ta _appreciate_ the work I put in for ya,” and, even once, a despairing, “How ‘bout we do a good ol’ one-on-one match o’ couch volleyball, huh? How ‘bout it?”

Kiyoomi had only taken him up on two of those three requests, though he’d rather die than admit that the lack of Atsumu’s unyielding dedication to the finest-tuned sets, even at practice, rankled in his absence.

Atsumu _calls_ him, two days into his affliction and one room over from Kiyoomi.

"Could ya budge up the thermostat a smidge?"

"I already did, when you texted me." Kiyoomi tries not to let his worry show through. "Do you need—" 

Atsumu cuts him off. "I'm gettin' better by the second, Omi-kun, dontcha go worrying for me~" 

Kiyoomi would heed his request better if Atsumu didn’t immediately hang up to have a (fully audible) coughing fit through the wall.

A truly miserable-looking blanketed lump emerges from Atsumu’s room not long after. Tired-looking eyes dart over to where Kiyoomi’s reclined on the couch. A nod and the slow shuffle to the kitchen continues.

"Hey, jus' grabbin' some tea for my throat," he croaks. "Stay over in the livin' room, alright, I'll wipe down and then I'll be outta—" 

Before Atsumu can finish his sentence, Kiyoomi's snapping on a mask and gloves and crossing the room towards the kitchen.

"Wha—"

Kiyoomi grabs him by the shoulders and steers him to the dining table.

“Sit down. When was the last time you ate properly?”

Atsumu waves a hand. “Don’ worry, I got the hookup for the takeout place down the street. Plus, I can blackmail ‘Samu ta send over some discounted product—actually, the bastard charges me _more_ than the normal price, so maybe you should call’n’ask—” He pauses to cough into his elbow, even though he’s wearing a mask, which would be grounds for Kiyoomi to jump his bones had he not been sweating a cool 37.6 C.

Kiyoomi starts rooting around in the fridge, coming up with some chicken, veggies, and eggs. Sniffling loudly, Atsumu asks, “What’s all’a that for?”

“None of your business.” He rummages around for a dashi packet and sets the pot to boil.

“Aw, look at ya, balked at the mention of playin’ nurse, and here ya are~”

"We've got to clean out the half-eaten stuff before shopping this weekend, anyway," Kiyoomi mutters, piling vegetables next to the sink for washing and setting the cutting board on the counter.

“Of course.” Atsumu nods, a facade of solemn understanding on his face. “Ever the realist.”

He rolls his eyes. “Watch who you’re making fun of.” He jabs the knife tip in Atsumu’s direction, only for the latter’s eyes to crinkle up happily. 

“Ah, I’m feelin’ the youthful energy flow through me again jus’ watchin’ ya!” 

“Yes, I’m sure holing up in your room has done your condition a lot of favors.” Sarcasm drips from his voice as he squeezes the last drops of the dashi packet into the broth. 

"M jus' tryna steer clear of ya til this passes, Omi-kun, ever heard of cooties?" Kiyoomi can hear the smile in Atsumu's voice at his own dumb joke, and dices the mushrooms a little more aggressively than called for.

They fall quiet for a bit after that, the only sounds being the bubbling, chopping, stirring that cooking zosui calls for and an occasional sneeze. 

Kiyoomi checks on the pot continuously, prods at the tenderness of the chicken, carrots, and mushrooms as they tumble in.

They tend to trade off kitchen duties, so it’s not unfamiliar for Kiyoomi to be cooking for Atsumu, but something about the occasional sniffles and exhausted eyes brightening as they follow his hands places an odd emphasis on it, that he’s cooking _for Atsumu._

Finally, as Kiyoomi drizzles beaten egg over the surface of the soup, Atsumu speaks. “Really, s’nice of ya ta do all this."

Kiyoomi doesn’t lift his eyes from the pot. “It’s the least I could do after you’ve been so… uncharacteristically courteous.”

“Hey! What’s _that_ supposed ta mean?”

“Put out a mat.”

Atsumu glares, but obediently tugs out a pot mat festooned with little weasels—a housewarming “gift” from Komori—for the zosui. His narrowed eyes widen as Kiyoomi ladles out some soup for him. 

“Wow… ya really didn’ have ta...” Atsumu’s still staring in wonderment at the steaming bowl, spoon, and chopsticks Kiyoomi sets in front of him. When he turns that gaze up to Kiyoomi… well, he busies himself with clearing away the last bits of clutter in the kitchen to avoid it. “But I sure ain’t complainin’!”

He catches a clap of hands behind him, thanking him for the food, and when he’s run out of things to organize, he returns to ladle out a bowl for himself too.

Atsumu closes his eyes, cheeks stuffed but still bunched up with a wide, content smile.

"Really, really good, Omi-kun," he manages between bites and slurps. Atsumu is surprisingly delicate about eating—not mess-free, but every chew and lick is deliberate and thorough, as he savors each bite, cherishing each layer of flavor. 

He’s waxing poetic about his roommate’s eating habits. 

Kiyoomi sighs deeply and scoops a big spoonful for himself, though he doubts this is the kind of illness that comfort food can fix.

"I was gonna make a joke about ya sneakin' yer gross hot sauce in here ta clear up my sinuses, but helll, ya jus' might make me cry from happiness anyway!”

And the flush on Atsumu’s cheeks—from sickness, from his high temperature, of course—warms Kiyoomi’s stomach more than all the bowls of hot broth in the world.

Incurable, indeed. 

* * *

Eventually, Komori’s gentle persuasion and promises to not force an overstayed welcome convince Kiyoomi. The reunion isn’t… the worst thing in the world, now that he’s had years to perfect the art of dodging relatives’ attempts to pinch his cheeks. He even ends up reconnecting with another cousin, who’s also gone into professional sports.

“Yeah, an’ I never miss a game of hers! ‘Cept when work’n’stuff gets in the way. My world doesn’ _revolve_ around her, contrary ta her beliefs.”

Her girlfriend’s thick Kansai drawl and short-cropped hair had also been a spark of familiarity, though not an entirely welcome one.

“Mai’s full of shit. Never stops following me around, work be damned.” Rika rolls her eyes, but doesn’t shove off the arm that Maiko drapes around her. 

“What can I say, I’ll never get enough’a my lady in uniform~” 

“All you talk about is my baseball pants.”

“They’re worth talkin’ about.”

“Hey, text me the next tournament schedule as soon as it’s finalized?” Kiyoomi cuts in. As pleasant as the conversation has been, he’s starting to get antsy from being around so many unfamiliar people for so long—which he isn’t entirely unused to, but it’s different when said people are _so convinced_ that there’s some kind of universal familiarity by nature of being blood-related. 

Rika holds up her phone, his contact that he just set on display, and nods. “You and Mai should coordinate to make sure you sit far, far away from each other.”

“I am a goddamn _delight._ Kiyoomi-kun, yer not gonna escape me.”

“Oh, I don’t think I will,” he mumbles, eyes cutting down to the Snapchat notification on his phone screen from _yer (least) favorite setter._

They exchange pleasantries and Komori flicks him on the forehead when he goes to tell him he’s leaving, but his warm smile makes up for it.

_guess it’ll just be takeout for me n my rich bitch robe tonight … hmm maybe the family reunion being on yer day to cook was sm sinister sakusa strategy_

Unbidden, his mouth curls happily at the sigh of Atsumu lounging on their couch, camera angled to capture himself and his laptop screen on another one of his damn pyramid scheme documentaries. He hardly even notices the thankfully unpopulated train car as he enters while tapping out a response.

Back on the city sidewalks, Kiyoomi catches sight of some familiar signs, realizes Onigiri Miya is just a street or two away.

Ducking into the warm, savory-smelling shop, with Kiyoomi-approved cleanliness standards, is a welcome haven from the bustling city.

“Hey, Sakusa-kun!” The shop’s thankfully almost empty as Kiyoomi beelines towards his favorite seat at the counter. Osamu slides over a box of sanitizing wipes, earning himself a grateful nod.

"Y'got tired of hanging around the worse Miya?" Osamu pulls off his gloves to toss away, rounding the counter.

Kiyoomi sighs. “If you can call 24/7 co-residency ‘hanging out,’ yes.”

“I’d say ‘m sorry, but s’only fair other people go through what I had ta for two decades.” He shrugs, but his eyes cut over to Kiyoomi, a little worry line between them. “Heard he got sick, though. How’d the two of ya hold up through that?” 

“All fine.” Kiyoomi reconsiders, and amends, "Well, he had some… choice words about your pricing on his orders."

“Tell’im it jus’ happens whenever I ring him up. Blame the system.”

“Ah, to be privy to Onigiri Miya’s family price-gouge.”

Osamu grins. "Ya get the _real_ family discount, Sakusa-kun! Don' even hafta marry into the clan."

 _Why would you say that,_ Kiyoomi thinks, because of _course_ his mind drifts to, well.

Miya Kiyoomi...

Kiyoomi suddenly feels the urge to sanitize the counter in front of himself so as to bang his head against it repeatedly, because marrying Osamu was, most unfortunately, not the first (or most favored) option that came to mind.

He casts about for a different topic. "Oh, Miya-san, I wanted to thank you for the leftovers you sent."

"Huh?" Osamu scrunches his nose. "Sent when?"

"With… Atsumu? Last week? When he visited," Kiyoomi clarifies. 

"I already gave away my leftovers before he came over. Damn leech, always moochin' off my extras," he mutters.

"He… huh?"

"Oh, he did raid my fridge to cook in _my kitchen_ , like a weirdo. Y'can't afford groceries for yer place anymore, Sakusa-kun?"

Osamu turns around at the lack of response. "Sakusa? Hey, I was jokin' about that, but if ya—"

“I have to go.” Kiyoomi stands up, motions feeling robotic, but words keep tumbling out of his mouth. “Thank you for the company and impeccably-kept shop, as ever, Miya-san, I’ll see you—” He fumbles. “I’ll see you.” 

“Slow down a second. What’s gotten into ya?”

“The. Grocery issue. Needs to be resolved.”

“So ya—oh. _Oh.”_ Osamu’s eyes widen, and he looks almost proud. “Thought he’d get away with that, didn’ he…” 

Kiyoomi’s face burns, feeling like Osamu knows, he knows, the couple tucked in the corner of the shop knows, everyone _knows—_

“I’ll—be taking my leave now,” he grits, making to powerwalk through the door and down the streets. Maybe straight into the sun. 

“Wait!”

He turns. Osamu holds up a bag.

“No one leaves Onigiri Miya hungry! Some _real_ leftovers.” A smile. “For you and the leech.”

* * *

Kiyoomi, to his credit, lines his shoes up neatly and hangs up his coat before rounding on Atsumu. However, these actions are preceded by him bursting through the door, Onigiri Miya bag swinging from his arm like a chain mace and color high on his cheeks, so Atsumu is appropriately alarmed.

"You—you—!"

"What?"

_“Lied!”_

Atsumu’s eyes are wide, cautious, as he says slowly, “I don’… want ta ask questions… in case I somehow make ya _aware_ of something that yer not even mad about yet..? Also, yer back early.”

“Caught an early train,” he says shortly. “You lied. About them being leftovers. Why… why would you do that?” Kiyoomi’s shaking his head, because he’s starting to see things stack up and he’s—he’s just not quite ready to paradigm-shift into comprehending it all. 

“Oh, uh… I didn’ think that’d. Come ta light.” Atsumu scrubs at the back of his head sheepishly. “It sounded dumb ta tell ya I made ‘em, is all, just. Thought ya needed a pick-me-up that day.” 

"You do all this… all these _things._ The, the onigiri and the sick thing and the hot sauce—" Kiyoomi is not one to sputter, but the roiling mixture of rage and embarrassment and fondness in his stomach is leaving him less than coherent.

“Hot sauce?”

“That’s _not_ the point here!”

"Well, so—so what if I did?" Atsumu juts his chin forward challengingly, but Kiyoomi doesn't miss the flash of panic behind his eyes. "I'm just—great like that, I guess. Y'want me ta stop doin' nice things for ya?"

"I want you to stop doing nice things like a damn spy and own up to them," Kiyoomi says, quieter. The adrenaline drains from him as he knits his brow, trying to puzzle it all together. 

The shape of it is coming into focus, but Kiyoomi refuses to step back until he fits these little details in. “You’re so… loud, about everything else,” he muses. “But…”

“Well, ya always had a habit of shuttin’ me up, some way or another.” The panic seems to have drained from him, as slow resignation seeps in. 

Atsumu had risen from the couch when he first stormed in, and now Kiyoomi takes his place.

“So you—”

“Yeah,” Atsumu cuts across him, all in a rush. He hooks a thumb in the tie of his robe, all casual-like, but the way his teeth are fidgeting at his lip betrays him. “Assumin’ yer, uh, thinkin’ the worst.” He lets out a laugh, quick and desperate. “But, well, it isn’ yer problem, of any of yer _business,_ really—”

“Are you hearing yourself right now?” Kiyoomi’s about two seconds away from bursting into laughter at how ridiculous he— _they_ have both been, but there’ll be time for that later. Hopefully. “Not my business that you _care,_ that you want—” 

“I don’t _want_ anythin’!” Atsumu interrupts him again, gruffly. “I don’t—nothin’ from ya, okay?” 

“So you don’t want… anything to do with me?” He feels almost lightheaded, hardly in control of what’s spilling out of his mouth. “Like—kissing me? ” 

Atsumu stares up at the ceiling. "Yeah, sure, kissin' ya would… be nice. If ya ever… wanted to." His cheeks color, and he clenches the hand that's tucked into his robe pocket, as if it's at all hidden.

"C'mere."

"Huh?"

"Come—just get, get here," Kiyoomi articulates, trying and failing to tamp down his urgency from leaking through.

Atsumu steps forward, just barely leaning down as if he hardly dares to let himself hope. _Not for long,_ he thinks, a fierce mix of smugness and euphoria burning in his chest. _I figured it out first._

Kiyoomi grabs at Atsumu's shirt, curling his fingers tight so the idiot doesn't get any bright ideas about running away

"Ah, quite demandin', aren't ya—mmf!" This is a more-than-ideal way to shut Atsumu's inane babbling up, Kiyoomi thinks. He files it between "spraying him with a bottle" and "simply walking away mid-conversation."

“It’s you for me too, idiot,” he mumbles against his mouth once they break away. “It’s… it’s _been_ you.”

Atsumu’s eyes barely have time to widen when he stumbles forward. Kiyoomi pulls harder, twists around, pushes him towards the couch to settle on top of him.

"Oh my god," Atsumu pants, wide-eyed as Kiyoomi primly arranges himself in his lap. "Ya really. Wow. Me."

His tone, huffed between breaths though it is, sounds far too wondering for Kiyoomi's liking. Hasn't he made it quite clear? "Yes. You. Don't act so surprised." 

"I just… damn. Ya like me, huh? I shoulda known ya couldn' resist." A grin is spreading across Atsumu's face, though his words are still bravado.

"I don't know how I could've made it clearer that I... want you. Obviously. Idiot." 

Atsumu's eyes go hazy at that, smile softening their corners, his face shining so bright that Kiyoomi's compelled to look away.

"Y'could've been clearer, but I'll let it slide as long as ya keep doin' that." His eyes drop to Kiyoomi's mouth, that muted hunger far less hidden than before. The feeling of being devoured by those tawny eyes sends a thrill up his spine.

He feels a “Doing what?” curling up on the back of his tongue, but he’s not all too preoccupied with playing coy at the moment, deciding that catching Atsumu’s (stupidly soft) lips again takes precedence.

Kiyoomi's hands stay cupping Atsumu's cheeks, but Atsumu can't seem to keep his hands in one place, roving from his hair down to his shoulders, arms, waist, where he finds purchase on the loose sweater he’d tugged on for the reunion. Which is the furthest thing from his mind right now.

Kiyoomi’s sitting taller than him (as it should be, he thinks), so when they pull back again, Atsumu lets his head fall onto the cable-knit cloth covering his chest.

"You'n'yer goddamn _waist_ , Omi-kun," Atsumu whines, his thumbs smoothing over their place at Kiyoomi's sides. "What're you like _that_ for?"

Kiyoomi is legitimately bemused. "I do core? Just as much as you?"

He gets a groan in response. “Ya don’ get it…”

Shifting, Kiyoomi can feel the tense, built thigh muscles under his own. The tips of his fingers press into Atsumu’s cheeks, singing at the long-sought sensation. “I think I have an idea.”

"Yer drivin' me crazy, jus' like always.” Atsumu sighs a long, put-upon sigh. “Ya think I'd be used ta it by now.”

And this is entirely unfair, how Atsumu can make him blush when _Kiyoomi's_ the one who climbed into his lap. “You’re so… shut up,” he _doesn’t_ stammer.

“I’m so shut up?”

“You’re just—making excuses. Focus. Pay better attention.”

A hand finds its way into bleach-blonde locks, tugging ever-so-lightly to pull Atsumu’s eyes back to his. Kiyoomi lowers his lids in what he’s been told is his There Isn’t A Single Block That Can Stop Me stare. “To me.”

He’s scored a flush creeping up Atsumu’s cheeks.

"Are ya tryin' ta kill me?"

"Please. I wouldn't let you off that easy."

* * *

Red descends over Kiyoomi's vision, briefly, and then wraps snug around his throat. He sighs.

"I think I can handle putting on my own scarf."

"Who knows what dangers could be lurkin' in the winter wear, Omi-kun? Ya think yer layerin' up nice an' warm, next thing ya know—asphyxiation." Atsumu sounds dead serious, like an idiot would. "Ya need partners ta spot ya for this sort of thing."

"We're not at the gym, dumbass."

Atsumu steps around to face him, tugging on his knit cap. The edge of it flattens his hair against his forehead, almost resembling his piss-colored bangs from high school.

"Make sure I keep this on the whole time. It's _yer_ fault I'm gonna have hat hair, anyway," he grumbles.

"I cannot believe you think freezing your ears off is worth it so your _hair_ looks good."

"So you agree it looks good?"

"Keep the hat on, Miya."

Atsumu visibly winces. "Yer goin' too far with that one, _Saku—_ nah, doesn' even sound right."

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, leaning back against the doorway as he tugs his boots on. "We'll run late for the game if you keep this up."

"Aww, but I love bundlin' ya up for the big cold outdoors." He makes to unnecessarily rearrange Kiyoomi's scarf. “Is my loving caring _boyfriend_ objectin' ta my generosity?"

"I object to most things you do." Before Kiyoomi can dodge, Atsumu lands a peck on his nose.

"Even this?"

Kiyoomi sighs, his lips tugging up in spite of himself. "Oh, I _cannot_ let you meet Maiko."

Atsumu puffs his cheeks out, pouting. "Ya don' want me to meet the family?"

Those damn (fake) sad eyes will be the death of Kiyoomi. Manipulative, they are.

He yanks Atsumu's hat down to cover his eyes, and presses him against the wall to kiss him deeply. Pulls back.

"Enough out of you. Let's go."

Atsumu pulls his hat back up, peeking out from under it, and how truly abhorrent it is that his eyes have never stopped shining with that same wonderment since their first kiss.

Once they're well on their way down the building's stairs, Kiyoomi tosses out, sly, "Osamu told me I get the Miya discount, anyway, so maybe _you_ should worry about me meeting the family."

"He _what?!"_

**Author's Note:**

> (whispers) atsumu does the cheek puff thing the more comfortable he feels w someone
> 
> i put too much time into researching zosui & now im dying to find a vegetarian version to make it sounds delish
> 
> here's the [recipe](https://www.justonecookbook.com/zosui-japanese-rice-soup/) and [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t8OQDzDtL6U) that i referenced for that section
> 
> i was not as meticulous when working out the timeline of volleyball and baseball seasons in japan, so... *gestures vaguely*
> 
> check me out on [tumblr](https://ayushipop.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/ayushipop) if ur into that sort of thing
> 
> feel free to drop a kudos or comment if you enjoyed! feedback means everything to me <33


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